The Imperial Georgia Hotel 4,500 American Civil War. (standard:adventure, 4433 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 27 2020	Views/Reads: 1427/1027	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
I got the idea for this story from a magazine published soon after the American Civil War. It began as a one or two paragraph humorous anecdote. I hope I captured the era accurately.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

As with my companions, the hasty bandages are stiffened with dried
blood, scratching my pumpkin hide whenever I twist around. It look like 
it'll be a long time a'fore they can be changed and I hope to hell the 
wound isn't infected. More of our troops seem to die from infection and 
disease than from Minie balls. 

I walk up and knock on the door. Even if it is a rebel home, I've been
brought up to be polite. I can see a curtain flutter at a side window 
but nobody answers. 

"Someone in there. I saw it," Jackson yells from the yard. 

The thought does occur to me that we only have one musket ‘tween us.
What if some cowardly Rebs are inside, hiding from our brave comrades? 

Nonetheless, knowing someone's inside and feeling apprehension, a
building anger, and hope for a meal, I pound louder. Damned if I'll 
stop without an answer. 

It takes a long time but I can finally hear the clatter of a bolt being
drawn. The door opens a crack. I see part of a moderately pretty face, 
as a woman looks out, first fear then anger in her gaze. 

"Get out of here," she orders. "I don't want anything to do with you
damned Yankee bastards. Get the hell off my property." 

"All we need is a little bite to eat and maybe a shelter, ma'am?" I ask.
"Maybe in the barn, or even a shed?" 

"I wouldn't give you a bean nor a stick, except alongside your damned
head." 

She slams the door and I can hear her throw the bolt, locking us out.
Not to be dissuaded, I continue pounding. When she doesn't answer, I 
call back to Jackson, "Gimme the musket." 

Using the butt of the weapon, I continue, slamming it into the door in
anger, chipping large splinters from the door-frame. Eventually the 
door opens again with angry eyes glaring at me. This time, the thick 
barrel of a horse-pistol extrudes below those blazing blue orbs. 

"I told you to leave, you bastards," she says. "Your own Colonel Adams
told me there would be no looting. Now leave or I'll fire." 

"Well," I tell her, jokingly, "if you won't give us a place to stay, why
... we'll simply find us a hotel." 

"Ain't no damned Yankees going to spend a night in my house. I haven't
sunk that low." 

Still trying to be civil, I salute her, smile and step back away from
her weapon. 

"Come on boys," I address my companions, "let's find us a hotel." 

"Ain't no hotels around here," Jonah says. "Ain't nothin' but that old
barn." 

"I don't seen no barn," I tell him. "I see us a hotel." 

We pick up Jonah and head for the structure. 

*** 

"This is like heaven," Jackson exclaims. It almost seems impossible but
the barn appears to have ignored the war; both sides of the conflict 
rolling past with little ill effect. 

There's a milk-cow in a stall, nibbling on straw. Goats mill around in
one corner -- looking at us curiously, and loose chickens abound. I 
even see bags of oats and other feed stacked against one wall. Several 
bushels of fresh corn stand near the center of the open space. 

"Keep an eye on the house," I warn Jonah. Propping his back against the
open door, I hand him the musket. “Still might be Johnnies in there.” 

"Let's start us a fire," Jackson says, using his good hand to shove
straw aside, clearing a space on the dirt floor around a rusty 
wood-burning cookstove. 

I go outside to look for firewood. We find a fairly-clean pot, used to
store animal feed. There's a well outside and we're soon dining on 
boiled corn seasoned with salt scraped from a salt-lick. Now, I think, 
all we need is butter. 

We can see the woman watching us from a window. She remains silent for
the rest of the day. The three of us have a good night's sleep, the 
first in a long while. For once, the little bit of rain during the 
night don't bother us none. Ordinarily it would've served to wet us, 
making the rest of the night uncomfortable. I wake to the smell of meat 
cooking. 

*** 

"We have chicken soup for breakfast," Jackson greets me while stirring
the pot. "A chicken, boiled oats, and a few ears of corn make a nice 
repast." 

"I hope you didn't steal any chickens," I joke. "We don't want Colonel
Adams on our asses." 

"Course' not," Jonah looks aghast. "The fowls wanted a room in the hotel
and the price was one of their number. They agreed wholeheartedly." 

"Why, then, their presence as guests is fair welcome," I answer. "And I
can guess the cost for Ol' Bessie over there, if we can find something 
to milk her in. Come to think of it, simply to protect our principle in 
this fine establishment, I shall feed the guests." 

About noon, Jonah calls out. 

"Here she comes, boys. Prime the musket and get ready." 

I look out a crack in the wall to see the woman coming, pistol weighing
down the belt of a full-length green and white-ruffled dress. Except 
for the weapon and the determined manner of her walk, she could well be 
a fancy southern belle I'd seen in that there Harper's Magazine back in 
Ohio. That one, though, wouldn't have used such language. 

Unladylike words flow from a pretty mouth, becoming louder as she
approaches to stand in front of us, one hand on the pistol grip. 

"You have an hour to get off my land," she orders, "or I'll go to see
your colonel. He assured me there would be no looting." 

"Excuse me, ma'am," I have to ask, "but you seem to have a lot of things
around here to loot? Not that we would even think of it, of course." 

"You're eating my food at the moment. I'll make certain Colonel Adams
reimburses me for the loss; but you'll be in a lot of trouble. It's 
better if you leave now. As for my farm, I have the good fortune to 
have President Davis as a grandfather. No one but no one, except 
low-bred Yankee bastards, would have the temerity to steal my property. 


“I'm certain the good Colonel Adams, himself a gentleman, will concur." 

As she turns to go, she swings her head back and continues, "Isn't it
enough that you let my Negroes run away? Must you bankrupt me too? 
Damned low-life northern thieves." 

I can't help admiring her spirit, and backside, as she struts back to
the house. 

"Sorry, ma'am," I call out after her, ignoring the laughter of my
companions. "We'll pay you from the proceeds of our new hotel." 

She's back a few hours later. This time to pass our hotel on her way to
a large shed. Studiously avoiding eye contact and with no pistol in 
evidence, she opens the sliding door. We can see a carriage inside, 
taking up most of the interior. The woman glares at me and walks out of 
sight, coming back with a horse and attempting to hitch it to the 
conveyance. 

From a distance, I can see the trouble she's going through, obviously
never having done the task before. We watch, amused, as she tries every 
which way but right. She glances back at us occasionally, trying to 
hide her embarrassment. Obviously, in the past her errant Negroes had 
been assigned the task. 

"I'm gonna help the lady," I tell the others. "It's a shame to see her
this way." 

"Oh, come on, Jim," Jonah says with a wide grin, "you're just an old
softy." 

"She can hitch me to her wagon if she wants," Jackson jokes. "I'd ride
along with her, long as she don't use the whip." 

"I can just hear her, Jackson," Jonah continues. "Get it up, get it up,
get it up." 

I walk over to help her. 

"You need some help, ma'am?" I ask politely. 

She shakes her head but silently backs up, continuing to glare as I
hitch the horse and test the traces. 

"There you go. Ready." 

I can see her lips move but nothing comes out, not even a "Damned
Yankee," as I help her into the carriage. Not looking at me, she flicks 
the reins and drives away. 

*** 

While she's gone, we consolidate our position, gathering firewood and
water, feeding the livestock and washing our bloody clothing in a 
nearby creek. We find clean vesture in a locker and change while our 
uniforms dry. 

The woman returns as the sun drops over the horizon. I come over and she
lets me unhitch the horse and take it back to pasture. 

"I talked to that nice Colonel Adams," she tells me, a gloating glint in
her eyes as I wipe down the tired animal with a cold damp rag, "and he 
assured me that he would take care of the matter. If I were you, I'd 
leave quickly." 

"You mean up and depart a thriving business?" I try to look shocked.
"And just as it's going so well?" 

"You damned well better, you damn Yan--." 

"Kees," I finish. "No, ma'am. But thank you for yer concern." 

*** 

Nothing happens for three days. Jonah's wound is getting better, him
being able to stagger around the hotel on his own. Mine is iffy, 
looking and feeling the same but at least no infection. There are clean 
rags in the hotel for Jackson to change my dressing. Jackson is almost 
back to normal, though his arm is still stiff and he can barely use the 
fingers on that hand. 

On the morning of the third day, two military wagons filled with troops,
crates and barrels arrive at the hotel. We can see them winding their 
way down a shady lane and toward the house. 

"Guess we're deep in it now," Jackson comments, seeing the troops. 

We're not really worried. We're wounded in battle. What's the worse they
can do to us, put us in a nice safe cell for awhile? Where we can get 
plenty of rest and good meals? 

"I don't see no muskets or rifles," Jonah observes, "but I do see
several bandaged heads." 

"Look," I comment, "the lady's coming out to greet them." 

We can see her talking to what must be an officer or sergeant in the
lead wagon. She doesn't seem very happy, though, eventually storming 
back into the house and slamming the door as the wagons make their way 
to our hotel. 

"Hi, there," a sergeant greets us. "My name's Trimble and I see you've
got quite a setup here." 

"At least we did, Sergeant Trimble," I reply with a sigh, "but it looks
like it's over now." 

"Hardly. The colonel told me about your hotel. He likes the idea enough
to send more guests." 

The sergeant motions and wounded troops make their way down from the
buckboard and a small Conestoga. One large wagon contains supplies and 
cots for the newcomers. 

Our business gets much better. Luckily, there are several male medical
people with them, along with bandages and the like. 

*** 

Well, nothing happens regarding the lady ... for about three weeks,
anyhow. We don't see hide nor hair of her, not a curtain rustling. She 
never even hitches her wagon or is seen in the hotel yard. 

We do have an occasional military wagon coming in with needed supplies
and dropping off more wounded; also taking a few back with them. 

Although the soldiers accompanying the wagons try, I won't give them
none of the lady's -- excuse me, hotel's -- livestock. Let them eat 
hardtack, is my thought. We got us a business to run and you can't do 
that by giving away your assets. 

At one point, about the end of that period, one of the wagon drivers
hands me an envelope from the colonel, containing fifty-dollars, 
American. It's a large sum, especially in the decimated South, and is 
to pay the lady. 

"Hell with her," Jackson admonishes. "She don't deserve nothin'." 

"I agree, Jim, hell with at bitch," Jonah, now recovered, says. We're
all well enough but hesitant to go back to the battlefield. So far, I'm 
running the hotel and have say as to who returns or not. The colonel 
has even made me a corporal. 

However, being an honest man I decide to give it to her. 

Feeling more than a little foolish and awkward -- after all, we have
taken over her barn and eaten a great deal of her property -- I walk to 
the house and knock on her front door. I'm in for a surprise. 

"Please come in, private," she greets me with a forced smile. 

I don't bother to correct her on my rank, simply follow the lady into an
expensively furnished living room. 

"Please have a seat while I get us some tea," she offers. 

I sit, uncomfortable and wondering what she's up to as she walks through
a doorway, leaving me alone in the opulent room. It's well-furnished 
and obviously female oriented, with little trinkets filling a row of 
shelving, miles of brocaded drapery and the like. An oriental rug hangs 
on one wall, depicting some sort of warriors engrossed in beating the 
hell out of each other with strange looking swords and clubs. 

She returns with two cups and a teapot on a silver tray. 

"Here you are, sir." 

"Uh ... thank you, ma'am." 

It seems surreal after the way she's treated us in the past, with not
one "Damn Yankee" since I entered; nothing but smiles and polite 
conversation. She's up to something? I think. 

"I brought you this," I say, handing her the envelope. 

She doesn't even look inside, merely places it on a table between us. 

"Its some--" 

"I know. I've been expecting it. Your colonel already told me." 

"But, if I may be so bold, how did he tell you?" I have to ask. "I know
you haven't been to town?" 

"You never asked my name," she says. "It's Helen Davis, a relative of
the famous President, which is why our brave troops never looted my 
home. Uncle Jeff told his generals to leave me alone. Also, another 
uncle, on my mother's side, was Sam Morse." She favors me with a sexy 
grin, stirring almost forgotten reactions from my loins. "Telegraphy 
has been a hobby of mine for quite a while, since before the war. I've 
even had a wire placed from here to town." 

"I see," I reply, trying to sort out all that information. Damn, I
think, but she's certainly connected. "So you must know more about 
what's going on than we do?" 

"I dare say," she says, the twinkle going out of her eyes, replaced with
a flicker of the previous anger. "Enough to know that it's not to my 
advantage to resist. Even Uncle Jeff privately admits the cause is 
finished. That you've all but won the war." 

"You mean our private war is over, ma'am?" 

"I suppose so," she says with a loud sigh, "and you might as well call
me Helen. I capitulate. Not entirely willingly, you understand? But to 
save what remains of my lovely home." 

By her manner, I can sense a great deal of sadness. It must have taken a
barrel of guts to admit it to me. 

"You understand, ma -- Helen, we can't leave until ordered? What was
only a request for succor has escalated into a duty?" 

"Yes. As your colonel told me, I'm now under Yan ... Yankee military law
and have to comply." She sits a moment, maybe considering her next 
words. "If I let you use my kitchen and have the run of my home, can 
you assure me nothing inside will be stolen?" 

"As long as I'm in charge, yes. I can't speak for the colonel, though.
And my name is Jim, Jim Thompson." It was my time to consider my words, 
even far exceeding my authority. "I'll even try to have you 
compensated." 

"That's already been taken care of. I've made arrangements with your
colonel." 

That last surprises me. Obviously, despite her present manner, she is a
very astute and forceful woman. 

*** 

So, matters escalate even further. Eventually both Jonah and Jackson are
returned to duty and I never see them again. I'm forced into being an 
administrator for up to a hundred wounded. We even receive two real 
civilian doctors and I'm in charge. 

One day, the Colonel calls me to his headquarters. 

"I'm making you a lieutenant," he tells me. "You're doing a fine job and
I don't have any combat officers free for the duty. Also, the position 
calls for an officer – so you're it." 

"Thank you, sir," is all I can reply. It's completely unexpected. While
at headquarters, I pick up a couple of used uniforms with lieutenant 
bars, epaulets, and mended bullet holes before returning to the hotel. 

We have the run of the home. With the use of her kitchen, spices, and
appliances our food improves enormously. Since I'm now an officer, I 
have more authority and can request better rations be sent over with 
new patients. 

I have a real room, for the first time since the war started, in a real
home and right next to Helen's. 

*** 

"Would you mind, Jim, if I helped out. Just a little?" she asks me one
day, over a decent breakfast in her kitchen. 

"Of course not, but why?" So far, she has kept to herself, not
associating with us Damned Yankee's. 

"I'm bored with sitting in my room and playing with my toys." Meaning,
of course, the telegraph. "I'll keep out of your way," she assures me. 

"We'd be happy to have you," I reply. "Having a woman around will be
good for the wounded. You won't even need to do anything but walk 
around and talk. Some of them haven't spoken to a lady for a long 
while." 

So now Helen seems to have turned a new leaf in her life, not only
talking to Damned Yankees but gracing us with her presence. I admit, 
I'm becoming affectionate toward the woman and, albeit slowly, she 
seems to be reciprocating. 

*** 

Late one night, alone in one corner of the living room with only five
other men -- playing cards in a corner -- she wants to talk. 

"I'm mixed up, Jim," she tells me, that sad look back in her eyes, maybe
helped by the half-bottle of sherry she's been sipping on. "I'm mixed 
up about this whole thing. I've lived a good life, money never being a 
problem. 

"Most of my family thinks I'm silly to even live here. I could have a
nice house in Atlanta, with servants and city activities. But I 
insisted on trying to run a farm. I had six Negroes to help and thought 
I was treating them right kindly. But right after you Yankees came 
through, they all up and left me alone here -- taking a good share of 
my property along. 

"What is right?" she asks, tears forming in expressive eyes. "Who and
what is in the right? Why must one society force themselves on another, 
and one so close to them in other respects? Why must you men fight over 
such simple matters? Why did the Negroes leave their home to run loose 
around the countryside, jobless and starving? 

"I'm so lonely, so mixed up and lonely." 

"I can't rightly tell you, " I reply. "I wish I could but just can't.
It's the people high up in Washington and Richmond, I guess. I didn't 
want to fight or kill. I have my own farm in Ohio. My wife died of 
consumption, right after the war started.” I have to pause, wiping my 
own eyes with a sleeve. 

“Since we didn't have any children and the war is on, I had no other
place to go or any wish to farm by myself. So I joined the army. I've 
never really had anything against southerners or slavery, simply went 
along with the rhetoric." 

"More whys. Ever more whys." 

She's openly crying by now and it must be infectious, since I feel tears
in my own eyes. 

Without thinking, my hand drops to her knee. Helen moves closer, not
bothering to remove my hand. In moments, ignoring the card players, we 
hug each other and cry together -- unashamedly. 

It isn't planned in any way but we both end up in her room for the
night. A few days later, I let two of the doctors have mine and move in 
with Helen. 

*** 

All things must end, even the war. 

"Jim! Jim!" Helen came into our room to wake me, almost screaming. "The
war is over. It's finally finished." She even sounded happy. "You 
Yankees have won. It just came over the telegraph. General Lee has 
surrendered. Some place I never heard of in Virginia." 

Things didn't change with us, at least for a few months, except we
didn't get any newly-wounded men in. The hotel lost most of its guests 
as men recuperated and left, some on their own, hobbling down the lane 
to go back home. It got to the point where the original building was 
returned to the comfort of livestock, tents torn down and a few 
remaining patients moved to the house itself. 

Finally, on June 23, 1865, General Stand Watie surrendered his Cherokee
army, which ended the fighting. 

Then, one day, six empty wagons arrived, a Major Travis with them,
riding on a large white horse. 

"We're here to evacuate the place, lieutenant," he told me. "We're
taking everyone with us, so you better get packed." 

"What will happen to us ... to me?" I asked. 

"Everyone in the command, including myself, is ordered to proceed to
Atlanta where the enlisted men will be paid off and released from their 
obligations. We're not needed anymore." 

"And officers?" I prompted. 

"The same, except for the ones who want to stay in the army. We'll still
need people to occupy the southern states. Not many, compared to our 
present numbers. You can volunteer if you want but I'm looking forward 
to going home to my hardware business." 

"Can you give a message to the colonel?" I asked. "Tell him I prefer to
stay here -- and to hell with the final pay." 

"I'll do that." The major smiled, seeing Helen standing back at the
doorway to the house. 

Well, I stayed at the hotel, a lawyer selling my farm in Ohio by mail.
Helen and I put a sign up at the beginning of the lane, saying, "This 
way to the Imperial Georgia Hotel." 

We still get a few tourists, confused by the sign, usually giving them a
free room for the night. After all, we southerners are known for our 
hospitality. 

The End.


Tweet